


shadows in the moonlight

by AGracefulShadow



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Autistic Erik, CW: Death, F/F, TW: Violence, autistic christine, runaways - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-07
Updated: 2018-08-22
Packaged: 2019-06-23 13:21:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15607173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AGracefulShadow/pseuds/AGracefulShadow
Summary: she ran away because no one was listening. because she was the bait and she didn't wish to be. because she was tired of being there for someone else and having no one do the same for her.they chased her because they didn't listen. because they all thought they needed her for some reason or another. because they all thought they could give her what she really wanted.





	1. she is broken

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [No More Talk of Phantoms or Vicomtes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13447311) by [tooberjoober](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tooberjoober/pseuds/tooberjoober). 



> im so so sorry for,,, this mess  
> like i really am  
> sigh  
> it wont happen again

Meg thinks she’s the only one who’s notice Christine’s disappearance. The lack of footsteps behind her proves this.

She’s slipped out behind her friend, leaving the others to bicker about some foolish plot to kill the Phantom, some foolish plot that involves Christine – but that’s all Meg could pick out. It was too chaotic in there for much to be discerned. She’s figured out two things: Christine did not want any part in it, and no one seemed to care.

Christine hasn’t gone far. She stands in the middle of the hallway, her arms hanging limp at her sides. Meg picks up her speed to catch up with her. “Christine!” she calls, and her friend turns around.

“I’m not going back in there,” Christine says. Meg notices the glisten of unspilled tears in her eyes and slows.

“I wasn’t going to make you. You’re visibly upset.” She walks up to her friend and reaches her hand out for Christine’s. “What exactly is the matter? You could hardly get a word in edgewise back there.”

Christine pulls her hand away from Meg’s. “It’s… It is...” she says, starting and stopping and starting again. She plays with the fabric of her dress and doesn’t make eye contact with Meg. “I don’t...”

Meg winces when Christine pulls away. “It’s about the Phantom, right?” she asks, following her friend as she wanders. “And that plan?”

Christine laughs bitterly. “It’s hardly a plan,” she says. “A plan would suggest there was actual planning involved. This is more putting things together and praying things will stick. There’s more infighting than thinking.”

“Well, you’re right about that-”

“The office door was open. All he had to do was stand outside and…” She sounds more pessimistic than usual. “If he knows what we’re going to do, we’ll never win.”

She leans against the wall and rubs her face with her hands. Stress has drained the color from her normally rosy face; she’s as pale as a ghost. Meg thinks that’s the wrong metaphor for this occasion and pushes it out of her mind. “Would you like to talk about it?” she offers, reaching once more for Christine’s hands. “I know he can’t get into my room. Even if you don’t want to talk about that, you’ll be safe.”

Christine nods. Her eyes are trained on the ground, totally still. “Safe,” she repeats. Her voice is hollow, hopeless; Meg feels her heart snap at hearing her that way. “Please.”

Meg isn’t sure what this means, but she doesn’t question it. She grab’s Christine’s hand and leads her away from the office, towards their sleeping quarters. She wants to say something, tell a joke to lift her friend’s spirits, but can’t think of anything. There’s nothing to say, it seems, that would ameliorate anything right now. Meg looks over at her friend’s face; she can tell Christine wants to tell her everything, but doesn’t know where to start.

Meg has been there. She’s been there so many times; in fact, she’s there right now, but it’s completely incongruous with the situation. Christine takes precedence right now anyway.

Christine always takes precedence.

They make it to the dressing room in practically no time at all, but Meg can tell even that’s too long for Christine. She looks about ready to explode. Meg wonders at what, exactly, there is left to tell. She knows the story; at least, she thinks she does. Something tells her that Christine hasn’t shared everything.

She opens the door and Christine darts inside. She nearly topples into a chair. Meg double checks the door is locked and sits down in the other chair. “Now, what is--”

“I’m terrified, Meg,” Christine chokes out, and that’s when she starts crying.

Meg, feeling her own throat close up, inches closer, brushing her hand on against Christine’s shaking shoulder. Christine’s face is buried in her hands, her fingers digging into her skin with such intensity that Meg fears she’ll draw blood. She finds herself mimicking the gesture with her other hand digging into her knee.

She doesn’t speak until Christine’s breathing has somewhat stabilized, until the shaking has stopped, until she has pulled her hands away from her face and wiped her face over and over again. She looks up at Meg with her red eyes and says, quietly, “I don’t want to die.”

That takes Meg aback by at least thirty feet. She raises her eyebrows. “No one said you were going to die,” she says. She drops her hand from Christine’s shoulder. “No one would have allowed it.”

“Are you so sure?” Christine sits up suddenly. “Because they want to use me as the bait. They want to use me to set a trap...” She rakes her fingers through her brown curls. “And there is… there is no way that this _plan_ \--” she practically spits the word; Meg has never seen her quite _this_ emotional before-- “could succeed. We either play into his hands or he kills us all.” She takes a deep breath before continuing. Her hands are shaking. “Surely he’d never hurt me, but whether or not he touches me, I--” she points at herself, stabbing her chest with her thumb-- “will die.” She stops completely then, her breaths heaving and shallow.

Meg has never heard her this pessimistic before, or at all. She reaches out and grabs Christine’s hands. “They’re trying to force you, but surely there’s someone on your side,” she whispers, running her thumbs in circles over the backs of Christine’s hands. “There has to be.”

Christine shakes her head. She’s not making eye contact, not even trying to anymore. “No one,” she says. “Not even Raoul...” Her eyes close tightly. She’s this close to crying again, this close to shattering once again. “I… I have no one.”

“That’s not true,” Meg whispers, lifting her hand to Christine’s face. “You have me. You always have had me and you always will.” Tilting her head up, Meg offers a smile, but that alone isn’t enough. She knows it.

Christine sighs. “And no one listens to you.” Tears leak past again; she pulls away.

Meg’s shoulders slump. She can’t take seeing Christine like this. She stands up and walks over to the window, her fingers playing with the ties on the curtains. It’s a gray day and if she squints, she sees snowflakes falling from the puffy clouds. There isn’t much, and it’s been threatening to snow for days like this, always a few flakes slipping from above, but never staying.

She rests her head against the cool glass and traces the snow with her eyes, watching as the few flakes escape from the sky.

That gives her an idea.

She doesn’t remove her gaze from the clouds. “Christine,” she begins, “do you think there’s a way you could leave?”

“Leave?” Christine repeats. “If I leave...”

Meg looks over now. “It’s a risk… We can tell maybe one person…” She stops, recalculates. “Two, one of them has to be Maman, but...”

“They would be in danger,” Christine says. She looks at Meg with confusion. “And what do you mean, ‘we’?”

Meg shrugs. “I couldn’t let you go alone.” She steps down. “Besides, you know he’s going to find out, but if we get ahead of him, then we can hide and, out of the opera house, he can’t find us as easily.”

Christine shakes her head. “Leaving… It’s just as dangerous as staying. What if he hurts them trying to find me?”

“We won’t know?” Meg offers. “You’re right, it was a foolish idea.” She sits back down across from Christine. “I wish there was some way to help.”

Christine says nothing.

Neither does Meg, not for a long time.

“Meg, at...” Christine begins. “At this point, I think… I think I’m willing to try anything. I just want to feel _safe_.” She digs her hands into her knees, grits her teeth. “Forget _love_ or-or _whatever_ this is fueled by.”

Meg tilts her head. “What are you getting at?”

Christine takes a deep breath. “Even if we don’t leave permanently...” She glances at Meg. “I think… I think that your idea, however foolish… It’s the best plan we have. I almost know… I almost know how he thinks, I think...” she trails off. “If we tell no one, we might get off almost… _free_.” She swallows the word.

Meg reaches for Christine’s hand. “If you don’t want to do anything, you don’t have to. I promise.” She squeezes in what she hopes is a friendly way.

Christine puts her other hand on top of Meg’s. “I… I think I do want to do this. I do want to. Yes. It’s not… It’s not the greater good, but I can’t do that anymore.”

Meg smiles and hopes she understands.

Christine stands up. “I will get some clothes, I will find something, and… I’ll meet you outside tonight.” She’s run over to the door. She stops there, her hands on the doorjamb. Worry is crossing her face, but there’s something else there too. “What is a good time? Ten?”

Meg thinks that’s a bit excessive; that gives them fourteen hours to prepare, but she nods all the same. “Okay. That sounds good.” She smiles. “Go focus on your things.”

Christine nods and pushes herself out of the door. Meg wonders what else she was feeling there and sets to work on her own tasks.

***

_One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine…_

That can’t be right.

_One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine._

Madame Giry shakes her head. She’s counted six times now, scanned every face, and still, Meg hasn’t appeared. It is doubly concerning.

She taps her stick on the ground. “Stop,” she calls. “Have any of you seen Meg?”

Looks of confusion pass among the nine dancers, only confirming Madame Giry’s suspicions and adding to her worry. She narrows her eyes and thinks back to the morning’s meeting; Meg had slipped out then, after Christine. That isn’t a surprising detail. The two girl have always been close, and Christine has always shown an aversion to loud noises like the arguing that morning. Not to mention the stress of _being_ the one set for bait and not having any say in it. She’d vanished, and Meg should’ve returned by now.

Madame Giry knows something is off. She wouldn’t say wrong, not yet at least. Nothing has happened to suggest wrong, but something is definitely not quite right. She drums her fingers on the head of her walking stick and decides this is more important than practicing. If something happens…

She pushes the thought firmly out of her head. No, now is not the time to think of _that_.

“ _Attention_!” she calls to the dancers. “We are… Taking a _fifteen_ minute break. I expect all of you to be back when I return.” She turns for the door.

One of the dancers calls, “Madame, where are--”

Madame Giry is out the door before she can respond. No time to waste. Fifteen minutes is _just_ enough time to make it around the opera house and back. She hurries off in the direction of the dressing rooms.

She’s about halfway there when someone calls for her.

“Madame--” when she turns around, she sees, to her surprise, it’s the vicomte, running towards her-- “you haven’t seen Christine anywhere, have you?”

Madame Giry shakes her head. “No, monsieur, I have not. They vanished this morning, and for good reason.” She sets off again, quicker now, towards the dressing rooms.

“They?” Raoul asks. “What do you mean, they?”

“Christine _and_ Meg. They’re both gone.” She glances at Raoul, who looked utterly shocked.

Raoul says nothing, just mouths, “Oh.” He follows Madame Giry for a few steps in silence. “You don’t suppose that--”

“ _Don’t_ ,” she hisses. “I will only considering that when I have no other options available.” She walks faster now. “Do you have any purpose, monsieur, or are you simply going to cause more anxiety?”

Raoul stops following her. “I’ll-- I’ll go search for Christine somewhere else, madame, then,” he stammers, before running off in the other direction.

Madame Giry makes it to the dressing rooms without further event. She immediately finds the one used by her daughter and opens it.

“Meg?” she asks, and, _oh_ , thank God, Meg is sitting at her vanity, scribbling furiously over a piece of paper. Madame Giry can see other papers in a pile behind her, like they’d been tossed over her shoulder. She practically collapses with relief that her fears weren’t true.

“Maman?” Meg asks. She looks startled, as if she weren’t expecting Madame Giry to appear (which she should have, frankly, but everyone has been on high alert as of late), and seems to be covering what she’s writing with her arms. “Are you alright?”

Madame Giry walks into the room. “I’m fine, I’m fine,” she says. “What are you writing?”

Meg’s face flushes, as if she were guilty of something. Madame Giry raises an eyebrow and motions for the papers on her daughter’s desk. Meg, slowly, picks the letter up, but doesn’t hand it over. “I wasn’t ready to show you yet,” she says quietly. “I was going to find you later and show you...”

 _Please, Lord, don’t have her turning out like me_. Madame Giry snatches the letter from her daughter and scans it.

It takes a moment to register, but when it does, she puts the paper face down on the vanity. “Well. I can see why you wouldn’t say this aloud,” she says. Meg opens her mouth to speak, but she doesn’t get to. “You do know how… _stupid_ of a plan this is. You know how unpredictable… Whose idea was this?”

“Mine?” Meg squeaks. “I’m sorry, Maman, but Christine-- she’s not safe, Maman, she’s terrified. And I-I just…” She’s gripping the edge of her seat, concern rising in her voice. “She thought it over, thought it was best… You need to ask her, Maman, I just...”

“Safe. That’s all that’s motivating this, safety?”

Meg nods and shrugs at the same time.

Madame Giry doesn’t question it. Some part of her understands. “When and for how long?”

“Ten. And I don’t know, Maman… As long as she wishes? It’s up to her.” Meg takes a deep breath. “She can’t stay and I can’t let her go alone.”

“Have you thought this through? What are you to do if he kills again while you are away? What will you do if someone recognizes you and sends you back? Do you plan on telling the Vicomte?”

Meg is squirming on the seat. It’s obvious she doesn’t have a response. “We, uh… Were just hoping he wouldn’t...” She looks up. “What’s the purpose in asking? You can’t stop us… It’s for…” She trails off, and Madame Giry knows exactly why. This wouldn’t be an easy choice for anyone, especially no one in their situation right now.

She looks at her daughter, takes a deep breath, and, resigned, says, “I believe I can hold things down for now. I’ve done so before; once more shan’t hurt.” She doesn’t elaborate on that part, just closes her eyes against the memories. “Where is Christine? The Vicomte is looking--”

“She’s at home, packing her things, but,” her voice hikes an octave in concern, “don’t tell him, Maman. She doesn’t want him to know right now.” She shakes her head and hands rapidly. “Perhaps later but...”

“It’s complicated, isn’t it,” Madame Giry says. Meg nods and she continues: “It always is. Don’t stay gone too long, just enough so that she’s comfortable again. Your absence will only make things worse.”

Meg nods again. Madame Giry glances at the clock and notices that she was five minutes to return to the other dancers. She can’t bring herself to say farewell like this, not at this moment in time, and so she just leaves, somehow more worried than ever before.

***

For Christine, the day passes much too quickly and far too slowly all at the same time.

She has one bag, one packed and repacked several times over bag, that hangs from one shoulder while she waits outside the Opera Populaire for Meg. For the scope of the journey she is about to undertake, it’s fairly small, but it seems enough at the time.

It’s snowing. It’s been snowing off and on all day; this time, it’s sticking. Christine stamps her feet and shuffles her footprints around. Their tracks will be starkly visible in this coating, and their progress, slow. They’ll make it out of Paris, but beyond that, Christine can’t fathom. She wraps her cloak around her tightly to keep the chill out.

Only a few days into the new year, and what a resolution she’s making. Freedom, a foreign concept.

At the sound of horseshoes, she jumps around. It appears to be Meg and some man, a stranger leading a dappled gray horse towards her. Christine waves and shivers at the same time. “Th-there you are,” she says.

Meg nods. “Thank you, monsieur,” she says to the man, who grins with crooked teeth and sets off. To Christine, she says, “The horse is ours for as long as we wish. Her name is Moonlight.”

Christine tiptoes to the creature and touches its long nose. “Moonlight,” she repeats, and the horse nickers as if in recognition.

“Which one of us is the stronger rider?” Meg asks. She also only has one bag, Christine notices, two if she counted the money pouch at her waist. Christine shrugs and strokes the horse’s face.

“I went riding as a child, but I haven’t in years,” she says.

Meg steps aside. “Better than I. Will you… steer? Ride? Lead? Will you sit in front first?” She giggles a little at her lack of expertise, and Christine laughs too.

“It shouldn’t be a problem.” She walks over to the horse’s left side and stares at its dappled hair. There are visible muscles beneath its skin, powerful at that. Moonlight could easily get them out of Paris in under an hour. Christine admires this while she mounts.

Meg climbs up behind her, and once she’s settled in the saddle, they’re ready to leave. Something holds Christine back; she looks up at the façade of the opera house, taking in every last detail of it for what could be the last time.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Meg asks. “We can return the horse and go home...”

Christine swallows. The cold breeze is starting to chill her bones. She has to get moving fast. “I… I’m sure,” she says. “Yes. I am sure.” More determination.

“ _Allons-y_ ,” Meg says. Christine tugs on the reins, and soon, the two are flying through the emptying streets of Paris towards an uncertain future, but a future free of phantoms all the same.

Christine takes a deep breath and hopes that it remains somewhat like that at the opera house. Something inside her is telling her not to kid herself.


	2. a trap of snow

Snow.

It is thick and heavy, the kind that soaks one to the skin, chills one to the bone. It has built up in piles on the street, it has lumped up on rooftops. It is everywhere.

Coupled with that is the wind – chilling, freezing any water on the body, chapping the lips, drying the hands.

It’s dangerous outside.

The lake beneath the opera house has frozen over.

***

It is the snow that keeps Meg and Christine in the seedy country inn, not any particular desire to stay there.

If it were not for necessity on the third night out, they would not have stayed here at all. Exhaustion, hunger, the desire for a decently warm bed has driven them to any inn.

Meg buries her head in a pillow and wishes they had been choosier. There are certainly many better places one could be snowed in at, and the duo have had the unfortunate luck to have been in none of them.

It has been two days now in this room, and it still reeks of stale liquor and vomit from its last occupants. The sheets are dirty yellow, having not been washed n God-only-knows how long; the mattress is lumpier than the ground; the bed creaks even under Meg's tiny dancer's body. Paper-thin walls block not even the smallest of sounds, and a crack in the window makes the wind whistle and scream. It is not conducive to sleep.

She lifts her head and stares across the room at Christine, who looks dazed and confused. She must have just woken up. She blinks a few times and scratches her head; Meg prays the bed is not lice-infested as well. It would not surprise her if it were, but it would be damn inconvenient.

"Sleep well?" Meg asks with a gratuitous amount of sarcasm.

Christine yawns. "What were our neighbors _doing_ last night?" she says. "It..." She trails off and does not finish that statement.

Meg nods. "Don't even mention it. I really wish to forget it." She sits up and stretches. A new crick in her neck aches. Of course it does. "I'm going to go see what it's like outside."

"You do that." Christine drops her head back on the pillow. "What time is it?"

Meg shrugs and slips off the bed. "Haven't a clue. There's only a clock downstairs, and I'm not sure I want to go down yet." Her stomach growls. It must have other ideas. She tiptoes over towards the window and tries to peek out. She can't quite reach without climbing on top of a chair.

Snow covers the ground like a pure white blanket. Nearby trees are buried almost to the branches; a few snowflakes still float lazily from the sky, the last stragglers of a monstrous blizzard. Gray clouds still cover anything, but they appear to pose no threat. The worst of the snow has passed.

Now they just need to wait for it to melt. Meg bites her lower lip and steps down. "We can't leave yet. Moonlight would drown in the amount of snow on the ground."

Christine mumbles something incoherent into the pillow before rolling over. "I wish we could have made it somewhere nicer before the snow hit," she says, resting her hand over her eyes. "Quainter. Less..."

From downstairs comes the shattering of glass and a whoop and cheer. "This early in the morning?" Meg mutters. She drops onto her bed.

"Less disgusting," Christine finishes. "It's too loud here. The smell is making me choke."

Meg nods. "I can agree with you on that. Would you rather be back at the Opera House?"

Almost immediately, Christine sits up and shakes her head, her brown curls going everywhere. "God, no. Here, at least, we are safe." Another crash and thunderous applause from below. Christine pauses and amends her statement. "We are safer. No need to worry about stalkers or murderers, especially with the snow holding him back, and once it melts, we can be on our way again." She sighs and drops back on the pillows. "I do hope the snow melts fast. I don't think I can bear much longer here."

Meg nods. She flashes a quick, sympathetic smile. "Believe me. I know. We can get through this."

"Definitely."

Applause rings out like a stampede of cattle from downstairs. "Unless I die of exhaustion first," Christine mumbles, rubbing her dark-circled eyes.

Meg shrugs. "I do have to admit, I am a little curious what's going on down there. Want to go down and have a look?"

"Why not?" Christine replies. She sits up and swings her legs off the bed. "It would help us blend in."

Meg picks up her bag. "Then let's go."

She opens it to search for clothes, wondering what it is like at the Opera House right now.

***

“ _Why?_ ”

Erik isn’t sure what he was going to say, but he _knows_ it certainly wasn’t that. Yet he’s said it, and as he stands in the doorway, hands clenched into fists to hide the shaking – the _weakness_ , he also knows he can’t take it back.

He tilts his chin up defiantly and draws his lips into a sneer. He has to go with this somehow.

When Erik had pushed the door to the office open (it had been locked, but he has tools jingling in his back pocket that suggest otherwise), Raoul had skittered backwards, shoulders hiking and eyes widening in what Erik learned long ago was fear. It has a similar air as that of a startled spider; needless to say, Erik has the element of surprise. The expression on Raoul’s face fades quickly enough, unfortunately.

He looks around deliberately, then draws himself up to a mirror image of Erik. “We’ve been expecting you, monsieur,” Raoul says.

“As I made sure of.”

“They’ll be on you any minute,” Raoul lies, complete with a sort of triumphant smirk. He’s trying desperately. Erik gives him credit for that.

He rolls his eyes. “If you intended to scare me, you have failed,” he says, “miserably, at that. You think I would be so dumb as to come unarmed?” He makes an equally grandiose show of shoving his hand in his pockets; he’s got nothing there. He doesn’t need it.

Raoul scoffs, but it seems reflexive. “We--”

“I am well aware that there’s no one here, monsieur,” Erik says, cutting him off. “I am also well aware that there’s two and a half feet of snow on the ground, and that every single business and building in Paris is shut down and has been for a day and a half now.” He starts to walk further in the room. “You slept on that couch--” a gesture at the lumpy, uncomfortable piece of furniture with the crumpled blanket-- “and there is no way in _hell_ there are any police officers here, of any variety.”

He stops in the middle of the room. Raoul is against the far wall; from here, Erik can see that he has at least three inches on the vicomte. He also sees dark circles and a rough shadow on his chin. It’s quite the antithesis to the put-together way Raoul typically looks. Stress has a way of doing that.

“Fine, you have me there,” Raoul says. He crosses his arms and locks eyes with Erik. “We are snowed in, true. I suppose that means we are stuck here.”

Erik forces his discomfort down and tries not to look away. “That we are.”

They stand like that for a moment longer, too long for Erik. He digs his fingers into his palms to keep from squirming, and, unbidden, the word he said earlier slips back into his mind.

“ _Why?”_

It’s a pointless question, and the way he’d said it was so pathetic. He pushes the thought out of his mind just as Raoul starts talking.

“Well,” he says. He holds out his right hand. “I suppose, if we really are stuck here, a proper introduction is in order? Unless, of course, you’re going to vanish again as if you really were a ghost?”

Erik studies the expression on Raoul’s face, but can’t quite figure it out. Old habits call for him to leave again, but he knows there isn’t a point. He has many questions; hopefully, Raoul has the answers. He chooses to nod and say, “Yes, I suppose so.”

Raoul waves his right hand. “Vicomte Raoul de Chagny, and your name is?”

“Which one?” Erik replies, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from smirking.

“Your real one.”

“I go by all of them. I believe that makes them all real?”

“I can say with reasonably certainty that your mother didn’t call you the _Phantom of the Opera_.”

Erik tenses, the smirk falling from his face. “My mother called me _nothing_ of the sort,” he growls, “but for you, I believe Phantom works _just_ fine.” He narrows his eyes at Raoul. That was surely an innocent comment, laced with no malice, but all the same, it stings like a knife. His fingers dig into his palm.

Raoul’s eyebrow arcs up. “Did I strike a nerve?” he asks.

Erik doesn’t respond at first, just glares. Part of him hopes in a petty, sort of childish, way that Raoul is just as uncomfortable as himself. It seems suitable payback.

He stares until Raoul breaks eye contact and combs his fingers through his hair, huffing. “Fine, _Phantom_ \--” Raoul hesitates on the word, drawing it out-- “if I did… somehow, I apologize.” He sidesteps away from Erik and towards the messy, paper covered desk opposite the couch. He seems to be searching for something.

Erik makes a sort of “hm” noise. “What do you know?” he says, turning to follow him. The apology is of no concern; were the circumstances any different, the vicomte would be halfway to dead right now. Erik’s fingers twitch.

Raoul looks up from the desk, holding a pen in one hand. “Hm?” he asks. He looks back down at the desk and searches for something else, presumably the ink bottle.

“Don’t play dumb.”

Erik watches as Raoul, having found a bottle with ink, fills the pen. “I know many things,” Raoul says. “You’ll have to be more specific.” He puts the bottle down and Erik sees that it’s his turn to grin.

“Don’t _play_ , monsieur le Vicomte,” Erik growls. “You know exactly what I mean.”

Raoul is writing something down. Erik leans over to see. “I could ask the same thing of you,” Raoul says. “I believe I will. What do _you_ know?” He points the pen at Erik accusingly.

“You’d only say that if you were hiding something. What is it?”

Raoul shrugs. “And you’d only say _that_ were you hiding something. I believe we’ve reached an impasse.”

Erik’s fingers twitch again. “Have we, monsieur?” he asks. “Or is this simply fueled by idiocy, entirely on your part?” He steps forward, digging his fingers into his palms so hard that he’d be bleeding were it not for the gloves.

Raoul does not respond; he appears focused on making notes. Erik tries a different tactic. “I’m going to repeat my question,” he says, slowly, carefully, “or do you need me to reword it using smaller words? I’d hate for you to not understand.”

Raoul’s fingers clench around the pen, but he still does not speak. Erik leans against the desk so that he is inches from Raoul. “What do you know,” he says, “about Christine?”

Raoul pulls away ever-so-slightly. “Are you trying to intimidate me into speaking?” he asks. “If so, it is not going to work.”

“You seem intimidated. I think it is.”

Erik doesn’t break eye contact; Raoul does. He takes a deep breath and looks down, combing his fingers through his hair. “I know _nothing_!” he says with much intensity. “She hadn’t spoken to me since the meeting that day...” He drops his hands, stares at the ceiling. “She barely even spoke to me then! She wasn’t at the Opera house the entire day, I don’t think, but I couldn’t get to her house to confirm it. And now she and Meg have disappeared.” Raoul brings his gaze slowly back to Erik. “There. That’s all I fucking know.”

There’s a silence, an uneasy one. Erik steps back, grabbing the paper from the desk. “She just vanished,” he says. He glances at the paper and the notes that Raoul has written on it.

_Why?_

_He is as afraid as the rest of us._

Erik wants to react to that. It is not wrong, per se; Erik just does not _like_ it. He opens his mouth to respond, but never gets the chance.

"You're here," a voice says. As one, the two men turn to look at the doorway.

Erik rolls his eyes. "You say this like you are shocked, Madame," he says, raising his eyebrow. "Did I not say I was going to be here?"

Madame Giry leans on her cane. "The surprise comes from the two of you not killing each other yet," she says.

Erik hums and shrugs, but doesn't answer. The vicomte clears his throat. "You two, uh, know each other," he says.

Madame Giry just nods curtly. "I suppose that's the case," she mutters.

Erik thinks that's a strange response. He wonders whether to respond, but Raoul speaks again.

"Oh. Well." He shrugs. "I suppose that's not surprising." He drums his fingers on the table. "Judging from what you know about, ah, the Phantom."

Erik can _feel_ the look Madame Giry is giving him. He chooses to ignore it. "Now that you're here, Madame," he says, "I believe we can finally get the answers we all desire, hm?" He leans against the desk and makes a vague sort of gesture with his left hand.

"I hate to break it to you, but she doesn't know anything." Of course Raoul is the one who replies, with an awkward chuckle at that. "I've already asked her."

"I wasn't asking you," Erik says. He tosses a look over his shoulder to try and silence the vicomte.

It does not work. Raoul keeps talking. He speaks with assertion, as if he has _any_ idea of what he's talking about. "I can assure you, it's futile. I've already asked like I've said." He laughs again. "She knows just as much as the rest of us."

Erik looks between the two of them. "Does she, now," he echoes, resting his gaze on Madame Giry. "I think I would prefer hearing it from her herself, rather than from you."

Madame Giry is avoiding eye contact, which strikes Erik as strange. Normally, she's the one forcing _him_ to meet her gaze. Now, it's the other way around.

Silence descends on them, a tangible blanket of tension. For what feels like hours, no one speaks.

Raoul is the one to break the silence. "I told you."

"Monsieur, please," Erik says. "This doesn't concern you."

Madame Giry has lifted her gaze now; her eyes are right at Erik's. "I am not going to tell you anything, monsieur," she says with maternal intensity. "I barely know anything, anyway. And what I do know, I am certainly not saying out loud." Her fingers are tight around the head of her cane.

Erik scowls. "You have a letter, do you not?" he asks, crossing his arms rather childishly. "You could simply hand that over." He sticks his hand out and motions for the letter. He knows it is on her person. He has rummaged through all of the drawers in her desk several times over the past three days and found nothing.

"A letter," Raoul says. There is an edge to his voice, but it is not the same as when he spoke to Erik. "There has been a letter the whole time, Madame?" Erik turn around and sees the expression written across Raoul's face: knitted eyebrows, half-open mouth. It is far too subtle for him to decipher.

Madame Giry clears her throat. "There has been, yes. Once upon a time." Beat. "I have burned it."

Burned it.

That throws a wrench in everyone's plan. Erik digs his fingers into the desk. "Did you?" he says. He does not want to believe it, but there is no way Madame Giry is lying. There are two things he has learned to recognize over the years, fear and the tells people wear when they fib. She does not appear to show either of those.

"Why?" Raoul asks, almost stuttering. "You had a letter and you burned it? Before showing anyway?"

Now she is scared. Erik wonders why. She closes her eyes before she talks. "It is for... It is because of..." She takes a deep breath. "It was a foolish plan on their part. I simply want to keep them safe, because God knows they need it. Keeping the letter out of _your_ \--" she lifts one finger in Erik's general direction-- "hands without destroying it was nigh impossible, and telling _you_ \--" now she opens her eyes and looks at Raoul-- "was something I was specifically told to avoid."

Erik has to admit that she is correct about himself, but two parts about this speech stick out to him. He does not get a chance to speak. Raoul cuts him off with a bewildered, " _Me_?" He waves his hands erratically like an Italian. "What did _I_ do?"

Madame Giry answers this with a shrug. "I do not know myself. The only person who knows is Christine."

"No, she is not the only one," Erik says. "You mentioned _them –_ I have to assume you mean Meg as well, since she is the only other person who has disappeared."

"Perhaps she is," Madame Giry backpedals, as if trying to cover her tracks. Erik gets the feeling she thinks that she has said too much, but to him and most likely Raoul, there is so much more for her to tell them. When she speaks again, she simply deflects. "We have at least two days before the snow has melted enough for anyone to leave. Anything I say will not be of us to you until then."

She turns to leave. Erik does not reply; it is futile. She is hiding something, but for now, he will let her go. He knows how to get information he wants.

Raoul fidgets loudly behind him. Obviously, the vicomte does not. Erik rolls his eyes. "I suppose she has a point. We would not want you to forget anything in the intervening days between when she tells us and when we leave. That would greatly interfere with your desire to be the hero."

"Do you have anything better to do?" Raoul replies. "And since when are _you_ leaving?"

Erik smiles and shrugs. "Until the snow lets up and melts, I do not. You should learn to not respond. Perhaps then it will bore me." He ignores the second question; there is no way Raoul is denser than himself.

Raoul makes a "hmp" noise. "I suppose I will, Monsieur Phantom. If it will take the fun out of it for you."

"Aren't you petty," Erik says. He starts to walk out of the office, pausing at the door to look back at his rival.

Raoul looks up from shuffling some papers back in order. "Pots, kettles," he replies. Erik rolls his eyes and slips out without shutting the door behind him. If nothing happens soon, the next few days are going to be very, very long.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> meg and christine's neighbors were playing the tuba at three oclock in the morning
> 
> i will also admit that erik is my favorite character to write. he is also the hardest to pull off correctly.


End file.
